No More Yellow Dungarees
by Ferret Coldfinger
Summary: It's been twenty-five years... What became of the boys after the fateful lorry accident?


((After watching the final episode of The Young Ones, which I consider man's greatest gift to the world, I was overwhelmed with a sense of loss and spiraled into a blue funk of indiscribable nastiness. This retrospect is a sort of way to cope with the fact that there is no more.))

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"Bloody rwain." He murmured, his long hair plastered to his forehead. He vainly tried to sweep it back, but it flopped lamely into his eyes. It was cold and grey, just like every day. But today, the rain seemed unbearable. His hand shook slightly as he took a cigarette from the breast pocket of his blazer. It was the same, but it stretched over a paunch and the political buttons were gone. No more yellow dungarees. "Have you got a light?" he asked.

"Um, yeah." A tall man with a slight stoop reached into the pocket of his tailored business suit and fished around. He pulled out a lighter. The cigarette was damp and took a minute to light. When it finally caught, he put the lighter back. "You know, you should really quit, Rick."

"I know, Ne-il." Responded Rick with a touch of exasperation. Everything was silent for a minute except for the rain and the sound of a lorry in the distance. He involuntarily rubbed the spot right about his right knee, which still bothered him when it rained. "Do you know if-"

"He said he couldn't make it. Something, like, really important came up in Vegas. Something about having a lot of irons in the fire and striking when they're hot. You know how Mike is…"

"I didn't know he was still in America…" Said Rick distractedly.

"So, are you, like, still teaching sociology?" Asked Neil in the awkward silence. His expensive haircut and suit kept dry under the traditional black umbrella.

"Yeah. At the old university. A doing a blumming good job, actually. All the students just love me." He paused as the lie began to wear out. "I'm thinking of packing it in, though, so I can concentrate on my writing full time." He glanced sideways at Neil. "How's the petrol business?"

"Oh, right, you know. Right now things are pretty heavy what with all the, like, killing of innocents in the Middle East. But, you know, generally, it's not too bad for me. Also the carbon emissions are, like, eating into the ozone and effectively melting the icecaps and killing, like, all the penguins, but I mostly try not to think about because it just brings me down." He trailed off. A scar was visible in front of his ear where the receding hairline failed to cover it; a souvenir from a long gone summer day.

"Gweat, rweally gweat." Muttered Rick, having not listened. Silence fell again. They both gazed bleakly in front of them, not really seeing anything. Rick opened his mouth again. "You know, I think the last time we were all together was at Mike's wedding."

"Well, not all…" Neil said quietly.

"The whole Balowski family was there. Do you rwemember how drunk Billy got? What he did to that ice sculpture of the goose… or was that Jerzy's nephew? I still can't tell them apart… God that was- that was five years ago, wasn't it?"

He sighed. Put his hands in his pockets and noticed that his cigarette had gone out. He flicked away the soggy butt.

"That means... it's been twenty-five years. Twenty-five whole years since Echo and the Bunnymen and Madness and Thatcher and Cliff and …" Rick suddenly looked at Neil, as if realizing something.

"I guess we're not the young ones anymore."

Neil wiped some rain from his eyes, which was strange because he was quite dry under the umbrella. He looked at his watch.

"Uh, listen, Rick. I've got to go, I've got, like, a plane to catch. I guess… I guess I'll see you next year."

"Same time, same place." Rick said with a half smile, shaking Neil's hand as he once would never have considered doing.

"Here." Said Neil, handing him the umbrella.

"Thanks…" Said Rick, who was already soaked through. "Seems like it's rwaining every year. Hey, do you still write music?"

"Yeah… sometimes… I'll see you later, Rick."

He turned to go, but Rick stopped him.

"Neil… do you think… if I hadn't let him drive the lorry…"

"I don't know that, Rick. I don't know."

The tall man walked off back to the road without his umbrella, familiar only by his hunched shoulders and his hands in his pockets. Rick now stood alone in the damp and miserable grey, but the rain hit the umbrella instead of his head. He stood there for a few minutes longer, staring at a grey crucifix-shaped stone, which seemed to have been erected upside-down. It was accompanied by a smaller tombstone with RIP SPG written in biro. It read:

VYVYAN  
BASTERD

_____

1962

-

1984

_____

_"Rick is a girlie virgin."_

_______

"See you next year, you bastard." He murmured, giving the headstone a quick two-finger salute. Then he turned and started back for the road.

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End file.
